“There’s a few hundred head,” Duvarney said, cautiously.
“You countin’ deer?” Bean asked. “We got four, five head of deer in among them cows.”
Welt Spicer drifted in, pushing a few head, among them a huge red steer that stood all of seventeen hands high and carried a magnificent head of horns. He rolled his eyes and bobbed his head at them, but went on by.
“Any you boys want some exercise, you might try ropin’ Big Red there. He don’t take to it,” Spicer said.
“Knew a cowhand one time over in the brush country,” Lawton Bean said, starting to build a smoke. “He was a reliable man. You sent him out to do something, he done it, no matter what. Well, one time the boss told him to clean up all the stock south of the ridge, and when he came in that night he had a hundred and twenty-seven head of cattle, thirty sheep, three mountain goats, seven torn turkeys, a bobcat and two bears … and what was more, he’d branded ever’ last one of them.”
“I don’t believe that part about the sheep,” Jule Simms said mildly. “Seems unlikely a man would run sheep with cows.”
Tap Duvarney looked around, and found a sheltered spot near some dunes, with the Gulf waters within view. There was driftwood about, and some brush. “We’ll camp right here,” he said, “and make a small fire. We’ll take turns on guard tonight.”
“You goin’ on in tomorrow?” Spicer wanted to know.
“Uh-huh … right in. We’ll hold the herd a few miles out and I’ll go on in and make a deal.” He looked around at them as they stripped their gear from the horses.
“From here on in, you boys act like you’re expecting Comanches. You’ll earn your wages before we leave Indianola, unless I’m mistaken.”
“How about the cattle? Will that water be shallow enough?”
“For them?” Welt Spicer grinned at the speaker. “Mister, those cattle don’t know whether they’d rather graze on the prairie or the ocean bottom. They swim like fish.
Shanghai Pierce calls his sea lions. You’ll see why.”
Jule Simms took over the cooking. Earlier in the day he had shot a deer, and they ate venison and the remains of the tortillas they had brought along, and drank coffee. Doc Belden strolled down to the edge of the water and for some time they could see his dark figure against the steel gray of the Gulf. When he came back, he said, “Let me have first watch.
I’m not tired.”
The fire died down, the men rolled up in their blankets, tired out with the day’s work. Tap walked to the brackish pond and washed his face and hands. When he went back to the fire all the men were asleep but Doc, who was up on the side of a dune with his Winchester.
“What’s the ‘Doc’ stand for?” Tap asked him.
“Courtesy title. I had a notion back when I was a youngster that I wanted to take up medicine. I read for it, worked four years with a doctor … a damned good one, too.”
“What happened?”
Doc Belden glanced at him. “I was a kid. The girl I thought I was in love with married somebody else, so I pulled my freight. Away down deep I think that was what I wanted anyway. I wasn’t cut out for a home guard. The army was recruiting, so I joined up.
I did a year at Fort Brown, and then they transferred a few of us west. I was at Fort Phil Kearney when Carrington was in command.”
After that they sat silent for a time, staring out to sea. The night was cool, the sea calm except for that slight persistent swell.
Tap indicated the Gulf. “I don’t like the look of it … too quiet.”
“I know nothing about the sea.”
“That’s where I started.”
Tap continued to stare seaward. It was a lovely night, with a young moon high in the sky. “There’s something going on out where that swell comes from.”
He got to his feet. “If there’s trouble, I’ll be sleeping yonder, and I’m a light sleeper.”
He went down the dune, checked the coffeepot, and added a little water and a little coffee for the guards to come. The cattle had wandered off toward the north, and only a few were in sight. There was grass up where they had bedded down, and he doubted if any would start back before daybreak.
He checked his gun, then peeled off his coat and sat down, tugging at his boots.
How many times had he slept out as he was sleeping now? And how many times would he do so in the future? Belden was one of those who did not fit … he was a square peg, and content to be so. Was he, Tap Duvarney, a square peg? If so, he was not content. He wanted a home … and he wanted Jessica.
How long he had been asleep he did not know, but when a hand touched his shoulder gently, he opened his eyes at once, his fingers already closing on the butt of his gun.
It was Lawton Bean, who was to stand the third watch. Tap’s mind put that together, and he noticed the position of the stars … it was within an hour of daybreak.
“Major,” Bean said in a low tone, just loud enough for Duvarney’s ears. “There’s somebody out there … somebody on a horse.”
Chapter Seven.
Tap Duvarney threw back his blanket and got to his feet. For a moment he listened, hearing nothing. He glanced toward the fire, now a bed of red coals. The scattered sleepers were all hidden from sight in the deeper shadows. He sat down again and tugged on his boots, then thrust his gun down into his belt, and picked up his gun belt and holster.
“South?”
“Yes … close by.”
They walked away from camp, keeping to the brush shadows. To the south there was an open space of about three acres, all grass well eaten down. Farther to their right, which was the inland side, there were tall reeds along what was called Pringle Lake, which was actually an almost landlocked cove.
The approach from the south was difficult, which was one reason for Duvarney’s choice of the position. The night was clear and the stars were out, but the moon was now low in the sky and not of much help. However, the sea and the sand reflected enough light to make anyone hesitant about attempting an approach.
The two men stood there together, waiting. After a moment or two they heard a sound, the same sound Bean had heard before. It was the whisper of brush over coarse denim … and then the slightest jingle of a spur. A rider was coming up from the south, walking his horse.
Lawton Bean watched the shadow take shape. “It ain’t the same one, Major, I’ll take an oath.”
“I believe you.” He hesitated. He had a pretty good idea who it was now; he even believed he could see the horse. “You go back on watch, Bean,” he said. “Keep a good lookout.”
Tap waited, standing there alone, watching the rider come nearer. When the horse was still a little distance off he spoke. “Come on in, Tom, with your hands empty.”
Tom Kittery rode on up, reining his horse in as he neared Duvarney. “Hey, you mean it!”
“Yes, I mean it, Tom. Some of your boys are after my scalp.”
“My boys? You’re crazy!”
“They want to fight, Tom. They want to push that feud. They also want me out of the way, because they think I’m blocking them.”
Tom Kittery chuckled. “Well, ain’t you?” He pushed his hat back, curled a leg around the saddle-horn, and started to build a smoke. “You can’t blame them, Tap. They’ve lost people to the Munsons, same as I have. They figure you’re an outsider.”
“You tell them to lay off. Tell that to Lubec and Breck, and whoever. I haven’t got time to light, but if they push me, they can get it.”
“You surely ain’t changed,” Kittery said. “You always was a right smart fightin’ man, Tap. They got that to learn.”
He glanced around. “You’re pushing north?”
“Uh-huh … I’m going to sell cattle in Indianola while they’re watching you at Horseshoe Lake, or about there.”
“Canny … you always was a canny one. How many head you got?”
“Eight, nine hundred. Mixed stuff.” ‘It Tom drew on his cigarette, and the end glowed in the darkness, “Sorry t
o say this, boy, but you got to go back. There’s no trail across the swamps.”
“There’s a trail. Just don’t you say anything about this when you get back to camp.” At Tom’s odd look, Duvarney added, “You’ve got a spy in camp. Or somebody who comes to camp now and again. They almost had ,: us in Refugio, and they knew we were coming.”;’
“One of my boys?” Kittery shook his head. “I won’t take stock in that, Tap. I know my outfit. They’ve been with me for years.”
“They haven’t been with me, and I don’t know them. No matter… . Those riders had to run their horses half to death to get to Refugio in time to meet us.”
Tom Kittery said nothing, but Tap knew he was irritated. Tom trusted his friends, and he wanted to hear nothing against them.
Tap changed the subject. “How does it happen you ride in here at night? Is something wrong over yonder?”
“Mady’s lit out. Her pa came into camp just a-foamin’ and a-frettin’. Figured she’d come to me, but she sure enough hadn’t, so I came over here.”
“Here?”
Tom rested his left hand, holding the cigarette on his knee, which was still around the saddle-horn.
“Heard you was with her in Victoria,” he said mildly. “I figured maybe you two had somethin’ goin’.”
“Don’t be a damn fool, Tom, and don’t try snapping that cigarette in my eyes when you go for your gun, because it won’t work.”
Tom gave another chuckle. “Canny … that’s what I said. She ain’t here, then?”
“She wouldn’t come here, Tom. We talked a little, that was all. I’m an engaged man, Tom, and I take it seriously. I wouldn’t start anything with the girl of a friend, anyway.”
“All right. You say that, but what about Mady? She’s forever talkin’ of city folks and their ways … and you especially, ever since you came.”
“Well, she’s not here, Tom. Forget it, and let’s go have some coffee.”
They went into camp together and took their cups to the fire. The coffee was black and strong.
Hunching down by the fire, Duvarney studied Tom Kittery carefully. The man looked thinner, harder. He looked like a man with an edge to him, a man ready to strike out suddenly, violently. And Tom Kittery, at any time, was a dangerous man.
“Let’s get some sleep.” Tap drained his cup and threw the dregs into the fire. “You can use Bean’s bed.”
“I got one.” Tom got up slowly. “If you ain’t seen her I just don’t know where to look.”
Tap sat down and started to tug off his boots. Then suddenly he went cold and clammy.
That other sound-the one Lawton Bean said he had heard before …
Tom Kittery would never believe Tap had told the truth if Mady Coppinger rode into camp. Or if he awakened to find her there in the morning.
Tap sat there, feeling the damp chill, holding a boot in his hand. Across the camp he could see Tom Kittery unrolling his blanket and tarp.
Behind him, Tap heard something stir in the sand.
Inwardly he cursed, suddenly, bitterly. Leave it to a woman to get a man killed. What had she run away for, anyway? Some fool notion about going to the city, as if that was the answer for everything. In a city, without family or connections or money, there was only one way for a girl to go.
He was tired, dead tired, but he’d be damned if … Behind him he heard a faint whisper.
Or had he imagined it?
Deliberately, he got up and crossed to the fire, filling his cup at the pot. The coffee was strong enough to stiffen the hair on a man’s neck, and hot enough to scald.
He tasted it, then put the cup down.
He had no intention of being killed or of killing anyone over Mady Coppinger. If that had been her back there … but suppose it was somebody else? Some wounded man, trying to reach him? He shook off the idea, and picked up the coffee cup. He needed sleep. He was desperate for it.
He sat quietly and now sipped the coffee. At last he put the cup down and, after rinsing it, he walked back to his blankets and crawled into them, boots and all.
Almost instantly, he was asleep.
When he awoke it was broad daylight and the camp was still. He sat up, blinking and looking around. His horse was saddled and tied nearby, the coals were smoldering, and the coffeepot was still on the fire. Everyone was gone.
He got up, shook out his blanket, and rolled it in his tarp. Under a stone beside the fire there was a note, hurriedly written.
Figgered to let you sleep. Else you ketch up, we will hold this side of Bayucos.
Getting some jerked beef and hardtack from the saddlebag, he squatted on his heels and chewed the beef, ate the hardtack, and f, swallowed the coffee which was bitter as lye. But it was hot, and he enjoyed it.
Finally he took the pot off the coals and covered the fire with sand. While the pot cooled off, Duvarney looked about the place where his bed had been. He could not be sure, but it looked suspiciously as if somebody had come up behind him in the soft sand.
He packed the coffeepot, then swung into the saddle and started north. The sand was so chewed up by cattle tracks that there was no possibility of reading sign.
He took his time. The occasional glimpses he had of the sea worried him. The swell had grown larger rather than diminishing, and the water still had that same glassy appearance. The sky was vague, the horizon indistinct.
The western side of the island grew more and more boggy, and the line of cattle slimmed down until at places it was moving almost in single file. Twice he saw places where animals had been dragged from the swamp. Where they had held closer to the Gulf side of the island, they had moved steadily along.
They were nooning and had a fire going when he rode up to them. “By Jimminy,” Simms said, “there’s our coffeepot!”
“Thanks, boys. I enjoyed the coffee.”
“I crossed up yonder,” Lawton Bean said. “It ain’t bad a-tall. There’s a few young uns we may have to pack over on our saddles, but otherwise it’s a cinch.”
“You boys go ahead. I’m going to scout trail.”
He rode on, leaving them around the fire, and pushed through the cattle and crossed to the mainland. At this hour there was only one place where his horse had to swim, and the water was lower than his chart had told him. He was riding up on the shingle when he saw the tracks.
A horse had come this way not long after daybreak, to judge by the tracks-a freshly shod horse with a smaller, neater hoof than Bean’s horse.
There were some wind-blown trees back from the crossing place, and he headed for them, wanting to take a sight over the route that lay ahead. After all, his chart was not new, and swampland could change. He had gambled on that trail.
Suddenly he glimpsed a horse and rider among the trees ahead. He turned his mount to weave around some small brush, and when his gun hand was on the side away from the trees he slipped the thong. He planned to use the gun he carried behind his belt, but a man never knew.
His horse scrambled up the sandy slope and into the trees, and he saw that the rider was Mady Coppinger.
“Tap,” she said at once, “you’ve got to help me.”
He pulled up six or seven feet away, his eyes scanning the brush behind and all around her. “What can I do,” he asked, “that Tom Kittery can’t do?”
“You can help me get out of here. I want to go to New Orleans.”
“It’s no place for a girl without family or friends,” he said. “How could you make a living?”
“Oh … oh, I’ll find a way!” She was impatient. “Tap, I just can’t stand it any longer! I can’t stand everybody going to bed when the sun’s scarcely out of the sky.
I want to go somewhere where there are lights and music, and something is happening.
I’ll just die here!”
“Have you talked to Tom about it? He’s figuring on getting married. He wants to live in this country; and besides, it’s the only life he knows.”
“I don’t care about
Tom.” Her chin went up. “I’m finished, Tap. Do you hear? Finished!”
She swung her horse nearer. “Tap, if you’ll take me to New Orleans I can go. I’ll … I’ll do anything you want.”
“You’ve got a good man,” he said roughly, “and no town is like you seem to think it is. They’re all the same unless you have money; and going the way you are talking of, you simply wouldn’t have any.’
“Anyway, what makes you think you’d see any of the life you’re thinking about if some man took you to New Orleans; or anywhere else? He might rent a house and just leave you there to visit when he pleased. He might not take you anywhere.”
“I’d leave him!”
“For somebody else like him? Mady, you’re too smart a girl to do anything so foolish.
You’ve got something here-a good man who wants you, a recognized position, with family and friends around. You’d be throwing it all over … for what? To live in a city where all the doors that mattered would be closed to you. Stop being a damn fool and go home.” She stared at him, her face white with anger. Her lips curled. “I thought you were really something! I thought you were the man I wanted, you with your city ways and your style! You talk like a preacher!” Her tone was thick with contempt. “I’ve had too much of that at home. I wouldn’t go with you now if you begged me!”
He reined his horse around. “I haven’t begged you, Mady. I haven’t even asked you.”
Ten minutes later, he came to the spot marked on the chart for the trail’s beginning.
It was overgrown with grass, but it showed evidences of recent use, more than likely by Indians going to the shore for the fishing, for there had surely been little other travel this way.
He tied his handkerchief to a bush to mark the opening, then rode out along the trail, scouting the way. At this time of year the swamp did not look bad, and it was possible there might be several routes that would take them through. Nonetheless, he held to the trail, emerging from it several miles further along, near the head of Powderhorn Lake.
He found a place among the willows near the lake and made a concealed camp there, starting a small fire. This spot could be no more than five miles from Indianola, and it would be easy travel from here into the port. Yet he felt worried and restless.
Matagorda (1967) Page 7
